


Mr Cellophane

by JJ1564



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Kidnapping, Murder, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 19:29:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8339902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJ1564/pseuds/JJ1564
Summary: Dean has a bad feeling about a case, but seems to be the only person who can remember a potential suspect. Sometimes. Dean hates it when he's right - and he soon hates the song 'Mr Cellophane'...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Thanks so much to my wonderful beta somersault_j for all her help and support, you are a superstar!
> 
> Written for the spnhorrorbang on LJ.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the characters used or the song from the musical 'Chicago'. I will not make any profit from this story.
> 
> Art link: http://hoardlikegoldenirises.tumblr.com/post/152115115045

It was a straightforward job, or so it seemed - people going missing in a small town, this time in Oklahoma. They’d done this kind of thing a hundred times. So why was it giving Dean a severe case of the chills? They had spent the day interviewing victims’ families and had come up with jack squat. Now they were finishing off their meal in a local diner.

“It’s probably nothing supernatural, you know that, don’t you?” Sam asked, sounding as weary as Dean felt. “There’s nothing to suggest a wendigo or a shapeshifter, or any other variety of monster.”

“People are still going missing, Sam,” Dean sighed, rubbing his tired eyes with his hands. His apple pie was looking blurry, a sure sign that he needed to sleep, and the sooner the better.

“Then it’s up to the police or the FBI to find them, not us,” Sam whined.

Well, he didn’t exactly whine, but it sure sounded like that to Dean. “One more day, Sammy, then we’ll leave it up to the local police, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam relented, adding, “you look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Dean huffed, too tired to give a better retort. He pulled his wallet out and left enough bills to cover a tip.

Back at the motel, Dean prayed that Sam wouldn’t start on about the job again, and for once his prayers were answered. He collapsed on the bed, fully clothed, with just enough energy to kick off his boots and put his gun under the pillow. Sleep had been elusive since he’d forced Sam’s soul back, but right now it was pulling him under and he was happy to be taken.

 

Over breakfast, Dean told Sam that he was going to go back and question the pharmacist, George Fenton.

“The pharmacist?” Sam frowned, “I don’t remember him at all.”

“Dude, he was creepy, shifty even,” Dean replied, “I think he’s hiding something.”

“Here – George Fenton,” Sam read from his laptop. “Lives alone, never married, took over the family home when they moved to Miami. Dean, this guy’s vanilla; he’s never even had a parking ticket.”

“Then he’s got the perfect disguise.”

“Hang on – the police checked his house after the disappearance last year and found nothing,”

“He could have a secret basement or attic,” Dean countered.

“You’re not letting this go, are you?” Sam sighed.

“Nope. You coming with?”]

“I’m sure you can handle vanilla-guy; I’m going to check in on the family of the last victim.”

“Good idea – see if there’s any connection with him.” Dean replied, as they parted ways.

 

Dean knocked on the door and George answered with a plastered-on smile, but he looked surprised to see him.

“Agent Young, what a pleasant surprise!” He exclaimed, opening the door widely to let Dean in. “I’ve just got back from church and I’m having an iced tea. Would you like to join me?”

Church, iced tea, warm welcome. Perhaps Sam was right and this guy was plain vanilla.

“Yeah, thanks, that sounds great,” Dean smiled.

“Come on through,” George ushered him in, asking, “What can I do for you?”

“I have a couple more questions; hope you might be able to help,” Dean replied as he followed him.

“I’ll do my best.” George smiled, “Now, please take a seat, and feel free to take your jacket off, it’s a hot day.”

“Thanks,” Dean shrugged his suit jacket off and sat at the kitchen table, where a jug of iced tea sat, and a plate of choc-chip cookies. Dean’s stomach rumbled despite the breakfast he had eaten earlier.

“Please, help yourself,” George offered.

“Thanks,” Dean repeated, unable to shake the strange vibes he was suddenly getting, although the guy was being perfectly friendly and polite.

Dean took a cookie as he gazed around the large kitchen. It looked like something from a 1950’s sitcom, even the refrigerator was old and hummed loudly.

“It’s a noisy beast, but it works,” George smiled ruefully, as he sat down and poured them both a glass of iced tea. “My mom never changed a thing after my grandparents passed, and I’ve kept it for her.”

“Your folks don’t live here?” Dean asked, although he knew the answer. He sipped his drink, enjoying the cool, fresh taste.

“No, they moved to Miami, as mom has arthritis and they thought the climate there would suit her better.”

“I hope it’s helped?” Dean inquired, fishing for clues.

“Yes, they both love it there,” George responded. “Dad golfs and mom gossips.”

“Do you have any other family around?” Dean blinked, his eyes blurry again. He didn’t think he was tired, not like he’d been last night. He took a longer drink of the iced tea.

“I have a brother who lives in Canada, and my sister moved to Miami with my parents.” George grinned. “At least, that’s what I tell people. Not that anyone ever asks. No one has in fact for years - not until you, Agent Young.”

Dean’s head was swimming now and he was having serious trouble keeping his eyes open.

“You…you fuckin’ roofie’d me…” he mumbled, trying to push himself up onto his feet. “I knew you were creepy…”

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere, Agent,” George smirked and easily pushed Dean back onto the chair, “please, remain seated.” George produced a length of rope and quickly tied Dean’s torso to the chair. He’d obviously done this before. Great.

“Y’fuck…fuckin’ creep…lemme go…gonna…Sammy…” Dean’s head lolled on his shoulders as he lost his fight with consciousness. His last thought was that he wished he’d been wrong about this guy, followed by a silent plea for Sam to help him.

 

“Wakey, wakey,” George’s voice and a sharp slap to his cheek roused Dean. He had been moved somewhere dark and damp; there was a smell like rotting meat, making Dean gag. “Here,” George lifted him up with one arm and held a small bucket in the other.

Dean parted ways with his breakfast, plus the iced tea and the cookie. He vowed if he survived he’d never drink iced tea again.

“The drugs sometimes have that effect, or it could be the odor. I don’t notice it, as I have no sense of smell,” George informed him.

“Lucky you,” Dean mumbled, wishing he could wipe the drool from his chin. He couldn’t lift his hands, he could barely move his mouth to speak, so he knew he was still drugged and immobile.

“I am, aren’t I?” George beamed at him, “and you know what else I am?”

“Batshit crazy?” Dean retorted, which earned him a slap across the face.

“You need to mind your manners, Agent,” George's face was no longer smiling; he glared at Dean with a look that made his skin crawl, then plastered on his smile again. "What I am is invisible. People never see me, never remember me. The police have interviewed me, and the FBI, but they never come back. Except for you. You saw me, Agent, you remembered me. How?"

"I dunno what you're on about," Dean slurred, wishing the guy would either shut up or hit him so hard he blacked out. His head was pounding and the smell was making him nauseous. "You're a creepy little guy, and I figured you were hidin’ somethin'...looks like I was right. Sammy'll be so pissed."

"Sammy? The tall guy – your partner?" George asked, looking interested.

"No, he’s my...yeah, my partner," Dean's sluggish mind had almost let slip that Sam was his brother, which he didn't think would be a good thing here.

"You think he's going to find you?" George inquired, eyebrow raised.

"I know he will," Dean said with more certainty than he felt.

"What if he already has?" George whispered into his ear. Dean struggled futilely to sit up.

"You...no…not Sam..." Dean's head swam more with the effort to move.

"He could be right here with you, for all you know. He may have followed you here, fallen for the same trap.” George leaned closer still to whisper in Dean’s ear, “Do you know what his screams sound like?"

"Sammy...no..." Dean whimpered as he blacked out again.

 

Dean woke up to the sound of screaming. Did he know what Sam's screams sounded like? He tried to remember if they sounded different to all the other screams he had heard over his lifetime. There had been too many screams, too much horror, too much pain.

He tried to sit up but this time, although his body no longer felt drugged, he was restricted by something, and he felt hot and sweaty. He lifted his head as much as he could and saw his body wrapped in some kind of plastic. He wanted to laugh because he looked like a worm on a hook, squirming and helpless. Then realization that his dick and balls were free made him panic. The sick fuck was not gonna touch him there, but unfortunately it seemed he already had. The nausea that was constant grew in his stomach until he started to vomit and choke, because he couldn't fucking move, he couldn't breathe, he was gonna die choking on his own vomit, and that wasn't cool at all.

George was there again, lifting his bound body and holding the bucket to catch the pitiful amount of vomit that Dean was coughing up.

"Your partner's a real screamer, isn't he?" George said casually, like he was saying your partner has big feet or long hair.

"Don't...don't fucking touch him; I swear…I swear I'll kill you," Dean growled.

"No, you won't Dean, because you're mine." George wiped Dean's chin with a cloth and held a bottle of water to his lips. Dean wanted to spit it back into his smug face but he was too thirsty. "You're the one, Dean, the first person who has ever seen me," he looked at his wristwatch. "Damn, I have to go to work now, but we'll continue our chat later. One thing before I leave..."

George opened a drawer somewhere to Dean's left and Dean followed the sound, his eyes growing huge when he saw what George was holding.

"No, no, you're not putting that inside me!" Dean yelled.

"Well, it's either this or you piss yourself and lay in it all day..." George wrinkled his nose, "that wouldn't be very nice now, would it?"  
George took hold of Dean's limp dick and pushed the tube inside. Dean clamped his teeth together - it wasn't painful but it was uncomfortable and humiliating. Next, George attached an IV bag to a cannula that had already been inserted into Dean’s arm.

"You're mine, Dean, so I'm taking good care of you. Can’t have you dehydrating, can we?" He beamed down at Dean as he patted his cheek. “And when I get home, we’ll have dinner together, won’t that be nice?”

“You’re a sick fuck,” Dean began to curse but George grabbed Dean’s tie and shoved it across his mouth, tying it behind his head. Dean’s further attempts at telling George exactly what he thought of him were reduced to muffled sounds. Then to Dean’s further horror George turned off the light, leaving Dean alone in the darkness. Except he wasn’t alone – he could hear someone sobbing from further away, perhaps another room. He hoped and prayed it wasn’t Sammy.

Then a really bizarre thing happened. Music started playing. Dean couldn’t see the speakers but it was pretty loud. Dean recognized it almost instantly. It was from that musical Chicago. He hadn’t cared when Sam teased about his girly taste in movies, because Catherine Zeta Jones was in it, looking almost as hot as she did in Zorro.

There was that sad little guy in it, always overlooked and ignored. And he’d sang this song…

“Mister Cellophane  
Shoulda been my name  
Mister Cellophane  
'Cause you can look right through me  
Walk right by me  
And never know I'm there...  
Never even know I'm there.”

Dean got it, of course he did. Sam may be the smart one but this was kinda obvious. The song finished and he tried to call out as much as the gag would allow. “S’my? Sham?”

“Help me…” a weak voice called out, and Dean was relieved that it wasn’t Sam. Then he felt guilty for being relieved, as some other guy was in trouble. He remembered the guy’s name now, Bill Adams, one of the people that had gone missing. And there was a missing woman too, called Julie or Judy something.

“Hang on, help’s coming,” Dean tried to reply.

“No one’s going to help us,” a woman’s voice called out, she sounded tense, no doubt on the edge of hysteria. “We’re gonna die just like all the others. Our hearts will fail or he’ll…he’ll finish us off.”

“Shut up,” the guy begged, “I can’t…I can’t take it.”

Any further conversation was stopped when the song came on again. Dean hummed along, trying to keep his game face on, trying to think of a way out and failing at both, miserably. By the time the song finished, he could only hear the woman sobbing, and hoped the guy had passed out. There was a gap of a few minutes before the song started again; Dean was beginning to really hate Catherine Zeta Jones, and he knew that was irrational.

Dean drifted off to sleep, waking up to hear the song playing, then the woman sobbing. He tried calling out to her but she didn’t respond. Dean slept again, this time waking up to the woman crying out, “He’s dead, he’s dead, oh God help me, help me.”

Dean cursed and struggled helplessly against the plastic that held him firmly wrapped to the bed. His senses seemed to be on high alert – he could hear the woman’s harsh breaths between her cries; he could smell blood, urine, feces and that awful smell of rotting meat. Dean knew now it was rotting flesh. He couldn’t see anything in the total darkness, and wondered how the woman knew the guy was dead.

The song started again and Dean groaned. Trapped in the darkness with the pervading odor and the fucking song on repeat, he was sure he was going to go crazy before the day was over.

The song stopped and the woman started to speak “I…I hope you can hear me. I’m Judith Hall, I’m a teacher and a mom of three teenage boys, my husband Brian is a teacher too. We met at a summer camp when we were students.” She took a long breath; “They…they don’t know where I am, what happened to me. If you get out, please…please find them and tell them I love them, and I’m so sorry…” she started to sob again.

Dean called out that she’d be okay, help was coming, his brother would save them, but he knew she couldn’t hear him properly. He hoped just knowing someone was with her would help. The fucking song started again, and Dean fought to keep his breathing under control. Getting angry and agitated would not be a good move, as he’d probably hyperventilate.

Judith spoke again when it stopped. “I never paid George much attention, he was just…there. He’s a good pharmacist but I swear I’d walk past him in the street; I probably have. Perhaps that’s why…” She took some deep breaths. “My car broke down and he offered to give me a lift home. I didn’t recognize him until he added from the pharmacy to his name. Probably pissed him off. He asked if I was thirsty…I was, I’d been stuck at the roadside for about an hour, couldn’t get a signal and couldn’t walk as I’d busted my ankle a few days ago. I guess he put something in the water, because I woke up here…” her voice quivered.

The song began again and Dean sighed. When it stopped Judith was silent; Dean drifted off to sleep again and was woken when the lights came on.

“There you are!” George grinned, like he’d been looking for Dean. “I hope you’re hungry, I’ve cooked my famous vegetable lasagna!” He stroked Dean’s face and Dean wanted to puke. “You just need to be patient for a little while longer, sweetheart.”

George disappeared and Dean lifted his head as far as he could. He appeared to be in an empty room, there was a chair beside his bed and a cabinet, where George had left two plates covered with kitchen foil.

“Oh bother, looks like he checked out early, I was planning on having some fun with him.” George muttered, then he slapped someone hard, making them splutter and groan. “Excellent, he’s still with us! But he’s not going to be much fun, so I think it’s your turn, Judith.”

“Don’t hurt me, please…” Judith begged. Dean could hear her clearly from the area behind him and knew now this was one large room, perhaps a basement.

“It won’t hurt at all,” George replied, then started to sing “Mr Cellophane” while Judith’s pleas for her life grew weaker. “Look at me, that’s it, good girl, keep those eyes open. No one knows my name… Well done, you’re doing so well.”

Dean could here muffled sobs and knew Judith was trying to get air into her lungs, and failing. He knew he was hearing her last breaths.

“Mr Cellophane…” George continued to sing happily as he stole Judith’s breath.

“Leave her alone, you bastard!” Bill gasped. Dean admired his courage.

“It’s nearly done; she won’t last much longer,” George replied calmly. “There, the last thing she’ll see is me.”

“No, no, not again, no…” Bill sobbed. Dean heard the thud of fist against flesh; Bill screamed in pain, followed by an eerie silence.  
Dean felt sick; he had never felt so helpless. He had laid there while George killed Judith - possibly Bill too - unable to move or speak or help in any way.

George came back in, smiling happily. “Don’t worry, Dean, I’m saving Bill for another day. He’s just resting now. And Judith, well, she’s resting too, or should that be at rest.” He chuckled at his morbid joke.

George pressed a button on the side of Dean’s bed which raised his head, then removed the tie from Dean’s mouth.

“You killed her, you bastard!” Dean yelled.

“Remember your manners, Dean,” George glowered at him, “keep a civil tongue in your head or I’ll hurt Sam.”

“You…you’re bluffing; you don’t have Sam…” Dean hoped it was true.

“Time to eat!” George clapped his hands gleefully. “I hope you like garlic bread.”

“Not hungry,” Dean muttered.

“You must be starving, it’s hours since you ate.”

“It fucking stinks in here, and you just killed a defenseless woman, so for some reason my appetite has gone.” Dean snarled.

“You are a fussy one, aren’t you?” George pouted. “Well, I went to all the trouble of cooking this, so you will eat it.”

Dean shook his head as George moved a forkful of lasagna towards his mouth.

“C’mon Dean, open your mouth,” George coaxed, “or I’ll mash it all up and feed it through a tube in your nose.”

Dean knew this wasn’t an idle threat, so he opened his mouth obediently, swallowing down the food. He had eaten about six mouthfuls when his stomach heaved.

“Swallow it down, Dean, swallow it back down or it’ll be worse for you,” George warned.

Dean tried, but the smell was seriously making him heave and he couldn’t hold it in. George was mad, really angry. He threw Dean’s plate at the wall, smashing it to pieces, then wiped the vomit all over Dean’s face and into his hair.

“You don’t like the smell?” George snarled. “Well, now you have a new smell to worry about, you ungrateful bastard!”

“Stop…fuck…gonna…” Dean panted; now the smell of his own vomit was everywhere, making him more likely to puke, not less.

George stomped out of the room and back upstairs, leaving Dean still semi-upright, covered in vomit and trying not to puke any more. He was seriously frightened now, more terrified than he’d ever been in his life. He recalled that he had been scared of that backwoods cannibal family, the Benders, and he remembered being chained up, together with that poor girl, by the fine upstanding folk of Burkitsville, chosen to be a sacrifice to some old Norse god disguised as a friggin’ scarecrow.

Fuck, he’d said it before and it was so true – demons he got, people were crazy. Monsters and demons he knew; they were predictable, they followed patterns, but people were fucking unpredictable - and that made them dangerous.

Dean figured he was getting used to the smell, or it was drying up, or both, as he had stopped gagging and was listening out for sounds from Bill. He called out to the guy a few times but got no response. Dean drifted off to sleep, woke up thirsty, hot and uncomfortable, slept again. After some time – Dean had no way of knowing if an hour or a day had passed – George returned, all smiles, with a bag of groceries in his arms.

“Here we are!” George popped the bag on the cabinet and stared at Dean, “Oh no, this won’t do, you’re all dirty. What have you been up to?”

“You…you crazy son-of-a-bitch, you did this to me!” Dean protested.

“Tsk, tsk. I’ll get something to clean you with…” He felt Dean’s forehead. “Hmm, you need cooling down, too. I’ve found that while the Saran wrap is great as a restraint, it does make people overheat. Even finishes them off sometimes and denies me the pleasure.”

“You’re a sick fucker,” Dean growled, unable to believe how casually George was talking about killing people.

“Ah, but it is a pleasure, Dean,” George smirked, “being there for those last few precious moments as they try to breathe, useless against the Saran wrap, and I am the last thing they see. Me, no one else.” George moved away towards the doorway, then hesitated. “Perhaps it’s time for you to see the ones I have taken, all those who have finally seen me.”

George turned the bed around and now Dean could see the whole room. He could see Judith, her body completely wrapped, her eyes wide open in shock, her mouth agape, covered in the clear wrap. And there was Bill, hanging opposite, his body wrapped up to the neck. Bill’s face was red and sweaty, blood had dried on his face where George had hit him, but he was still alive. Dean couldn’t help but think Bill would be better off dead.

Further along each side of the room were rows of corpses wrapped in cling film, rotting slowly away; like so many cocoons that would never open.

Dean’s nausea returned and he closed his eyes; he didn’t need to see any more. He was crying now; he hadn’t realized until his face felt wet. This was how it was all going to end, no blaze of glory for him, just slowly rotting away under the gaze of a madman. Dean opened his eyes again, searching, and there was no sign of Sam. Dean was relieved, but knew he could be further back in the room, behind all the corpses. Even with the lights on it was still fairly dark in the room, which Dean guessed was a basement.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” George was smiling almost sadly at him, “I’m going to keep you. I told you, you’re mine and I’ll look after you.”

Dean closed his eyes again and let the tears fall. Where was Sam? If he wasn’t here, was he still looking for him? What had George done with his Baby, with his phone?

Suddenly cold water hit him full on the chest, making him cry out in shock. George was calmly hosing him down like he was a dirty car. The cold water hit his exposed cock and balls, and Dean yelled “Holy shit!”

George grinned but carried on, running the cold water over Dean, from his toes to his head and back again. Dean was freezing cold by the time George was done; George moved away to turn the hose on Bill, waking the poor guy up with a splutter and a weak moan.  
Dean’s teeth were chattering but he felt more awake than he had in a while, and the nausea had passed at last. George turned off the hose and turned Dean’s bed back towards the wall.

“There, that’s better, isn’t it?” George grinned at Dean. “If you’re a good boy, I might even let you out of the cellophane soon.”  
“Why?” Dean mumbled, his teeth chattering from the cold, “wh-why me?”

“I told you, you’re special,” George said as he wiped Dean’s face with a towel. “You saw me, Dean. You remembered me. No one ever has.”

“You’re fuckin’ crazy,” Dean braced himself for a slap.

Instead George gave a heavy sigh and pulled up a chair, sitting close to Dean. “I’m going to tell you the story of my life. Me - Mr Cellophane, Mr Invisible, Mr Gets-Away-with-Murder!” He laughed to himself. “And you’re going to listen, Dean, with no snarky comments.” From a back pocket George produced a ball gag, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. “Ta dah!”

“I’m not…you can’t…” Dean protested but George simply held his nose until he had to gasp for air and shoved the ball gag in.

“There we go, I’ll be two seconds…” George disappeared and Dean heard muffled cries from Bill.

Dean was shivering from the cold, his teeth now trapped in place by the gag, his nose and eyes running from the cold.

George reappeared wiping his hands on a blood-stained towel. “Bill’s settled for the night – don’t worry he’s still alive, but he won’t be bothering us.”

Dean couldn’t help but try to scream in anger at George; of course, nothing happened apart from muffled grunts.

George ignored him and settled in his chair, crossed-leg and comfortable. “I was the middle-child, older brother, younger sister. They say the middle-child often gets overlooked, and whatever I did, I never got any praise or attention. So I started doing things I thought would get noticed – I pulled all the legs and arms off of my sister’s dolls, melted my brother’s army men on the stove – but all I ever got from my parents was a weird stare, like they didn’t even know me. So, I upped my game, killed the family cat with my bare hands, got my arms all scratched up,” he smiled at the memory. “My mom cleaned the wounds and bandaged my arms. She told my family the cat had run away.”

Dean felt sick, how could this be true? How could a family ignore such actions? He shuddered, adding to the shivers already wracking his body.

“You look cold, Dean,” George peered at him, “don’t move…not that you can!”

George went to the cabinet and pulled out an old army blanket, draping it over Dean. He brought the bag of groceries back and took out a bag of chips and a can of coke.

“I was going to share this with you, but not today. You asked me why and I’m telling you,” George sat back down and opened the chips, eating a few as he watched Dean impassively. He sipped his coke and then sat back, ready to resume his tale. “So, my next move was Rex, our dog. Big old thing he was, soft as butter. I put rat poison in his food. He died slow, in agony, my dad shot him in the end, he knew ol’ Rex was a goner. I told him I’d done it, he walked straight past me and hugged my sister and brother.”

George sighed, “I stopped for a while then, just did little stuff, like stealing from kids at school, or pushing smaller kids downstairs. Never got caught. No one saw me, no one remembered me. When I went to college I sailed through the exams, partly because I cheated, but also because pharmacy suited me. Still does; I’ve learned so much about how to immobilize people, how to kill, as well as how to cure.” Dean snorted in disbelief and George glared at him, “I’m a good pharmacist, Dean. I’d never kill anyone unless I wanted them to see me. I could, you know, I could give people all kinds of poisons or wrong doses and kill so many…” he looked wistful, “but where would be the fun in that? Anyhow, I saw that musical on a trip to New York, Chicago, and I heard my song. It could’ve been written for me. I decided to talk to my parents, to find out why they couldn’t see me, why they ignored me.”

George ate a few more chips and drank some more coke. Dean’s mouth was so dry and he was so hungry, watching him was torture. His stomach growled and George laughed, the bastard.

“I’ll give you something to eat when I’m done, Dean,” George informed him. “So, back to my tale. When I returned from college I tried talking to them. They looked at me blankly, and my mom said who are you? So I picked up a lead-crystal vase she loved and smacked her over the head with it. She crumpled back against the sofa and I knew she was dead. My dad saw me then, he sure did. He screamed and tried to grab me but I hit him straight in his face. He fell down, blood everywhere, still alive, so I hit him until he stopped breathing.”

Dean was beginning to hyperventilate; he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. George was calmly telling him how he’d murdered his own parents; it was horrific, and Dean knew George’s poor sister and brother would be next. His eyes widened as he sucked as much air as he could through his nose, but it wasn’t enough…George slapped his face, hard and took off the gag.

“Okay, we’ll leave that out, but if you say a word, Dean, just one word, it goes back in and stays there all night, understand?” George threatened.

Dean nodded, just grateful to be able to breathe freely again.

“Of course, I had to deal with my sister,” George carried on, “she came home from school, ignored me as she walked in and screamed when she saw them. I grabbed her, put my right hand over her stupid mouth and my left around her scrawny neck and I squeezed until she stopped breathing. I took the bodies down here – it’s a storm cellar in case you were wondering – where I knew no one would find them.

“I called my brother, said my parents were sick and he came home. I hated him the most. The golden boy – clever, charming, handsome, athletic – I sat him down and told him the news, that I’d killed them all and had poisoned his coffee.

“He saw me then, for the first time, he really looked at me. He called me a bastard and a sick freak – actually you remind me of him a little – and it was then I had the idea to wrap him. We’d had a new TV delivered and there was a sheet of cellophane big enough to cover him. I put it over his head, cut a few holes in so he could breathe for a while. He was terrified, pleaded with me to stop. His eyes never left mine. I watched the poison take hold. Lucky I’d wrapped him, as he vomited everywhere, not pleasant at all. He choked on his own vomit and died, his eyes still on me.”

“You…” Dean started to say but George just pointed to the ball-gag that rested on his leg and Dean stopped. His mind was screaming you bastard, you fucking monster, who does that, how could you do that to your family, to your brother…

“You think I’m a monster, perhaps I am,” George continued, “but I’ve lived a life full of loneliness and torture Dean; yes, torture, because sometimes I thought people saw me but they only ever saw what they needed. Like the kids at college, borrowing my notes, girls at school asking after my brother, and customers so nice in the shop that walk past me in the street, although I’ve known them for years.”

George stood up and started pacing, getting worked up now, “But then I decided, I was gonna make them pay, all those people that used me, ignored me, looked right through me. I started with a girl at college, one of my brother’s many fans. I wrapped her, but I messed up, she died too quickly from shock and overheating. I took a boy next, a jock, he was big and healthy and he lasted a long time, weeks I think. Since then I’ve taken one or two a year. Some last just days, some last months, like Bill. Would you believe he used to be a weightlifter?” George stopped pacing to look at Dean.

Dean raised an eyebrow, unsure whether to answer. George gave another chuckle and carried on pacing and talking. “I’ve taken a policeman, a doctor, a couple of teachers. Lots of vagrants to practice on. And from the highest to the lowest, they’ve all seen me; I’ve been the last thing they ever see.” George stopped again, suddenly deflating, and sat down heavily. “I screwed up, didn’t I? With Judith. She was too close to me, someone I liked, always so pleasant and friendly in the shop. Then when I offered her a lift when her car broke down, she looked right through me and something snapped. I smiled and reminded her who I was, then once she was in my car I drugged her and brought her here.”

Dean shuddered again, not from the cold this time but from the knowledge that Judith had died right behind him, her body was still hanging there with all the others, and Dean had been useless, helpless, trussed up like a fucking Thanksgiving turkey.

“Dean, Dean,” George was calling, slapping his face again, “Stay with me, nearly there, because then you came, Dean,” George sat up straight again and beamed at him. “You saw me! You found me, you remembered me…” George looked delighted.

Dean had to stop thinking that he was going to be trapped here as George’s plaything for months, even years, and no one would know, or he was going to hyperventilate. He started reciting the lyrics of Enter Sandman in his head. George slapped him again.

“What is the point of me telling you how special you are when you’re not…” another slap, harder this time, “…even…” another hard slap, hitting Dean’s nose, “…listening?” the last slap was around his head, across his right ear and it literally made his ears ring. George was fucking strong for a small fella. Perhaps he wasn’t human after all, perhaps…

The punch to his gut was unexpected and made worse because he couldn’t move; the instinct to fold was denied to him.

“Stop…” he wheezed, “m’sorry.” And he hated himself for being so weak, being such a coward, but he was helpless and George was an unpredictable, sadistic fucker.

“That’s enough,” George said, stroking Dean’s bloodied face. “I know you’re sorry; perhaps I should’ve fed you first, I know it’s a lot to take in.” George moved back and grabbed the open can of coke. There wasn’t much in there and it was lukewarm but Dean guzzled it down as George held it to him, tasting his blood mixed with the sickly sweetness.

“Well, you’ve exhausted me, Dean, and I have to get up for work tomorrow, so I’ll say goodnight. One last thing,” George bent over to retrieve something from the floor and Dean started begging again when he saw the ball-gag.

George fitted it easily, patting Dean on the cheek. Now Dean knew the guy was fucking certifiable – he had busted Dean’s nose and was now gagging him? Dean’s eyes widened as he tried to convey his fear to George.

Luckily, George either noticed Dean’s panic or realized his mistake, as he removed the gag. “Silly me, I don’t want you checking out for a long time yet, but you need to be punished…oh yes,” he picked up Dean’s sodden, dirty tie and fixed it around Dean’s eyes. It seemed a redundant gesture as when he left the lights would go out, but it made Dean feel more claustrophobic.

Dean’s whole body relaxed once George left, which just made his bruised ribs ache more. He tried to find a comfortable position and eventually fell asleep. He dreamt of George pulling him around the cellar on a chain like a dog, walking him past all the decaying corpses, kicking him in the ribs whenever he gagged or tried to escape. He woke up longing for the safety of his Baby, for the comfort of a motel bed, for the smell of coffee and the girly shampoo Sam used.

 

He drifted to sleep again, dreaming of Sam hanging with the others, helpless and being slowly murdered by George. Sam screaming, calling his name…

“Dean! Dean!” Sam’s voice called though his dream and someone was slapping his face, gently this time. “Oh God, please, please wake up, fuck, what the fuck…”

“Sam, is he…” another familiar voice.

“He’s alive, Bobby,” Sam replied.

“Thank the Lord,” Bobby sighed. “What the hell is all this?”

“I think all the missing…” Sam’s voice sounded unsteady, “…all the missing people are…are here.”

“Crap, that’s 32 - 33 with Dean,” Bobby’s gruff voice was uncharacteristically shaky.

“Tell me you got the bastard?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, he ran right at me, like he didn’t think I’d see him,” Bobby replied. “Strange thing is, I didn’t see him, not until he yelled ‘you’re not taking Dean from me’ and by then he was almost on me.”

“Help me with him?“ Sam was saying to Bobby, and Dean knew he should say something, open his eyes, make some sign that he was okay; but he wasn’t okay, and the only thing he would do if he spoke or moved would be to cry like a baby and he was Dean-fucking-Winchester…

“Dean, it’s okay, I gotcha, you’re safe,” Sam’s voice was gentle, as his hands carefully removed the tie from his eyes and wiped the tears from his face. Crap, well, as he was crying already, he opened his eyes, blinked at Sam, and bawled. All the terror, horror, frustration and hopelessness came pouring out, as Sam held him and Bobby carefully unwound the Saran wrap from his body. He was so distraught he didn’t even worry about Sam and Bobby seeing his crown jewels.

“The fucking bastard worked him over, too, look at all the bruising,” Bobby growled and Dean knew Bobby wished George was alive so he could kill him again.

“We gotta get him out of here,” Sam was lifting Dean, and he was impressed by his little brother’s strength as he sank into oblivion cradled in Sam's safe arms.

 

Dean woke up at Bobby’s, in the room he and Sam had always shared as kids. He was still hooked up to an IV but at least he was in familiar surroundings, and he was clean, warm and wearing his own sweatpants and t-shirt.

Sam was dozing in a chair by the bed and Dean just watched him for a moment. Dean had come so close to losing all this – his freedom, his life, and more importantly his brother. Nothing else mattered as much as Sam; the moments when he believed that George had captured Sam had been the worst of his life. Almost as bad as the times in hell when he’d had to watch Alastair torture Sam, but he’d known then that wasn’t really his brother. This time he hadn’t been so sure.

“Sam…” he whispered, his throat dry. He swallowed and tried again, “Sammy.”

Sam’s eyes opened and he smiled at Dean - there was nothing more beautiful in the world than a Sammy full dimples-out smile. “Hey, you okay?” Sam was already unscrewing the cap of a bottle of water for Dean. He helped Dean to sit up a little to drink some.

“Pleased to be outta that fuckin’ slaughterhouse,” Dean replied, once his mouth was less desert-like.

“You were pretty beat up and dehydrated, that’s why Bobby hooked you up to an IV,” Sam explained, “thank God we found you when we did.”

“How long?” Dean guessed it was just a few of days although it had seemed like more.

“Three days, felt like three weeks.” Sam blinked away tears. “Good to have you back, dude,”

“Yeah, thanks,” Dean let relief wash over him but it was short-lived as he remembered something he needed to ask. “Sammy, that guy, Bill, did he…” Dean knew by the sorrow in Sam’s eyes what the answer was.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam took Dean’s hand in his own, “he was already gone, by about six hours the cops said.”

“Tried to...to speak to him an’ the woman, Ju-Judith,” Dean tried to keep from sobbing. “She…she was so scared Sam, so freakin’ scared and I was useless, couldn’t do a damned thing.”

“Dean, none of this is on you,” Sam squeezed his hand as Dean looked away, not wanting Sam to see his tears. “George had been getting away with this for years, and no one had even interviewed him more than once, not before you.”

“They still died, I couldn’t save them,” Dean whispered.

“But you’ve saved countless future victims, he could’ve kept going for years,” Sam explained, “and all the victims’ families know what happened to them, now. They can all be buried properly.”

“I guess that’s somethin’,” Dean sighed. He rubbed his eyes and turned back to look at Sam. “But…how did you find me?”

“Wasn’t easy. I had no idea where the hell you’d gone. I didn’t remember you saying you were checking out George’s place until I popped into the drug store for some Advil. I saw him and it clicked. I asked him and he said he’d seen you, but after you asked a few questions you’d driven off. He seemed so sincere, said he hoped nothing bad had happened to you.”

“But you didn’t believe him?”

“Well, I’d spoken to Bobby,” Sam paused, “you don’t need to hear all of this now…”

“I do, please…” Dean coaxed.

“Bobby managed to track the Impala, couple of towns over parked outside a shopping mall,” Sam explained. “We got no leads there, we didn’t know you’d never even been there. Bobby started looking at the police records about the missing people and all the places that had been searched, and he wondered if any of the houses had storm cellars, this being twister country. No one had realized the Fenton’s had a storm cellar, so although the police called to do a routine search of the house, nothing was found.”

“Thank God for Bobby, I owe him a bottle of the good stuff,” Dean tried to smile but he was still too tired, too freaked. “Hey, that sick fucker was really strong, Sam.”

“Yeah, he’d given you two broken ribs and almost broke your nose,” Sam agreed, “and managed to carry you down to the storm cellar, as well as all the other folk.”

“Was he even human?” Dean wondered.

“Turns out he was part fairy, which was why he was so…invisible, it seems, and so strong,” Sam replied. “His mother said she was raped but the culprit was never caught; her husband believed her and they kept the child, but never bonded with him.”

“Man, I hate fucking fairies,” Dean grumbled, exhaustion creeping up on him. “Hey, do you think it’s ‘cause of the fairies I saw that time?”

“Could be, no one else ever noticed the guy,” Sam nodded thoughtfully.

“Well, I guess being abducted by the King of the Fairies was good for somethin’,” Dean grumbled.

“I guess!” Sam laughed, looking relieved that Dean had cracked a joke, then peered closely at him. “You should get some rest.”

“Going to, Sammy, don’t think I can stay awake,” Dean yawned and grabbed Sam’s hand. “Um, stay with me? Please?”

“Of course I will, as long as you need me to,” Sam promised.

Dean drifted asleep, trying to ignore Mr Cellophane playing on a loop inside his head.


End file.
